Venice–Geneva

Ricard required seventy-two hours to draw up the sales agreement, hardly unusual for a transaction involving nearly a billion dollars’ worth of art. He suggested they meet again at the Freeport the following Thursday at 4:00 p.m. to sign the documents and exchange the eight paintings. Lovegrove insisted the deal was contingent on a final authentication of the Picasso and the Pollock, as both artists were among the world’s most frequently forged. Ricard saw nothing unusual in the request.

“When would your connoisseur like to see the paintings?”

“Thursday afternoon would be fine. He won’t require more than a few minutes to make a determination.”

“One of those, is he?”

“You might say that.”

Lovegrove’s connoisseur, whom he did not identify, passed those three days in Venice. He went to the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli in Murano each morning, avoiding a certain bar on the Fondamente Nove, and busied himself with the lesser paintings adorning the nave. On Tuesday he took delivery of an art carrying case—one large enough to transport a painting measuring 94 by 66 centimeters—and on Wednesday he accompanied his son to his math lesson at the university. That evening he sat at the kitchen counter drinking Brunello while his wife prepared dinner.

The BBC’s Six O’Clock News issued from the Bluetooth speaker. Prime Minister Hillary Edwards, facing a rebellion within her Cabinet, had announced her resignation as leader of the Conservative Party. She would remain a caretaker prime minister until a new leader had been chosen. The Party’s powerful 1922 Committee, hoping to avoid a protracted succession fight, had put in place rules that would limit the field of candidates to just three.

“Who are we rooting for?” asked Chiara.

“Someone who can stabilize the country and get the economy back on its feet.”

“Is that Hugh Graves?”

“His colleagues appear to think so.”

“He seems rather fond of you.”

“Unlike your boyfriend from Bar Cupido,” remarked Gabriel.

“I guess you’re not hungry tonight.” Chiara muted the newscast and changed the topic of conversation to Gabriel’s impending trip to Geneva. “You don’t really think he’s going to let you walk out of the Freeport with the Picasso, do you?”

“Gennaro?”

“Edmond Ricard,” sighed Chiara.

“I don’t intend to give him much of a choice.”

“And if he decides to call the authorities?”

“Then things will get very interesting for all the parties involved.”

“Especially your girlfriend.”

“Not to mention her assistant,” added Gabriel.

“And if everything goes according to plan?”

“I will destroy my six forgeries so Ricard can’t slip them onto the market. Then I will personally deliver the Picasso to Naomi Wallach in Paris. She’s already searching for Emanuel Cohen’s rightful heir.”

“Someone is about to become extraordinarily rich.”

“And someone else is going to be rather miffed.”

“The owner of the Picasso?”

Gabriel nodded.

“One wonders why he agreed to sell it in the first place,” said Chiara.

“We made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Three paintings of extraordinary value and a guarantee that the Picasso would remain locked away in the Freeport for the foreseeable future.”

“And to think you wanted to go to the police.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel as he held his wineglass up to the light. “How could I have been so foolish?”

*  *  *

He awoke early the following morning and dressed in a pair of black trousers, a black pullover, and a gray cashmere sport jacket. Anna and Ingrid collected him at Geneva Airport at half past three. They stopped at an office supplies store long enough for Gabriel to purchase a retractable utility knife, then headed for the Freeport.

“You’re not fooling anyone in that ridiculous man-in-black outfit,” said Anna. “You can be sure that Monsieur Ricard will know exactly who you are the minute you walk into his gallery.”

“Which will make the proceedings go much more smoothly.”

“You’re not going to strike him, are you?” Anna looked at Ingrid and whispered, “He can be quite violent when he loses his temper.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“You don’t know him as well as I do. At least I hope not.”

“She doesn’t,” interjected Gabriel.

“I’m relieved. After all, she’s still a child.”

“But hardly an innocent.”

“Yes,” said Anna. “Ingrid told me all about her lifelong struggle with impulse control.”

“And you, of course, reciprocated with a tragic tale of your own.”

“How did you guess?”

Anna’s driver parked outside the office block at the southern end of the Freeport, and Gabriel and Ingrid followed her into the lobby. The guard at the security desk consulted a clipboard, saw that Madame Rolfe and her party were expected at 4:00 p.m., and directed them to the lift. Upstairs on the third floor, Ingrid pressed the intercom button next to the entrance of Galerie Ricard but received no response. Anna gave it a try and met with the same result.

“Perhaps we should phone him,” she said.

Gabriel dialed the gallery’s number and after several rings was invited to leave a message. He killed the connection and rang Ricard’s mobile. There was no answer.

“He must be with another client,” suggested Anna.

“As far as Edmond Ricard is concerned, you’re the only client in the world that matters right now.” Gabriel tried the door but it was locked tight. Then he glanced at Ingrid and asked, “I don’t suppose you have a magic bump key in your handbag?”